Love Songs, They Kill Me
by Trouble Cookie
Summary: Two starcrossed lovers pulled apart with bitter words and mislead feelings. Love isn't always fun and games. Contains character death and sexual references  BoyxBoy .


**_Hello, darlings. Well, I've been working on this piece for absolutely ages and finally got it finished! Tadaaaaah!  
I'm trying to add more oneshots and chapters to Dream Child to make up for my huuuge absence. Sorry about that, by the way.  
Written to the song Lovesongs, They Kill Me by Cinema Bizarre  
Warnings: Contains character death and BoyxBoy sexual references  
Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note or any of the characters. Nor do I own Cinema Bizarre or this song. Yah. Woot. That was depressing. Anyways!  
Enjoy~  
_**

_Love songs, they kill me, _

_They kill me, now._

Our story starts with two young men, torn away from each other with painful words. It was bound to happen, what with their only ways for them to find happiness being in all the wrong ways. Inflicting pain, being in their own worlds, control…Yes, they were star-crossed lovers indeed, and what became of them after they were forced apart by one single decision that blossomed into a chaotic fight? Here are their stories…

_The curtain's closed, no way home_

_The nectar of life run dry_

In the corner of a cosy newly opened café, a man with shoulder length blonde hair and a marred face sat, hands occupied with teasing a bar of chocolate out of its foil wrapper. He was seated in a worn dark plum armchair which was mismatching from all the others. It contrasted against the glossy cherry wood table with a red sheen of paint coating it. A large steaming white ceramic mug sat in front of him, filled almost to the brim with hot chocolate. It was true that nowadays he was consuming far more sugar than he used to, to keep him awake and stimulated. It was the only way he knew.

He didn't look at what his hands were doing. He stared listlessly out the tinted windows, through the gap in the heavy crimson silk curtains, boot tapping on the beech wood flooring. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the walls were painted a rich mocha colour, grand paintings hanging proud behind the sparkling white marble countertops. The scent of coffee wafted around the air, filling his nostrils with the strong but alluring scent. Across from him was a sleek tan leather sofa, looking temptingly comfortable with its plum velvet throw, violet cotton and dark indigo silk cushions thrown over it in a slapdash manner, though still stylish.

It seemed, Mello noted, that each piece of furniture had a certain air of luxury about them. Still facing the window, he glanced out the corner of his eye to spot a modern silver birch wood coffee table being spread in a creamy white table cloth with indigo and silver embroidery. Silver doves and indigo roses decorated the delicately frilled edges and two tinted light blue glasses of bubbling liquid were set on readily placed small square oak slabs. Two orchid pink velvet stools with polished pine legs were set at either side by the glasses.

It was odd, Mello pondered, that he was taking in so much detail when normally he would not think of anything but the chocolate he was slowly devouring in his dry mouth. Returning his attention to the darkening street, his eyes took in the last of the apricot and peach tinted clouds as the inky blues began to drench the sky. Rhinestone stars embellished the darkness, burning out like silver and gold flames. In amongst their bedazzling abundance, the gentle glow of the pale moon dusted the streets and lit up the sky. Of course, these grand and beautiful colours were drained as your eyes descended due to the bright city lights. He could just make out the shadowy outline of his motorbike in the parking lot.

He had been here for hours, just watching the humongous crowds of rowdy teens and business workers, students and families slowly vanish from the damp and cool streets. Rain stained the whitewash buildings, making the light grey slates darken. The bright flowers had wilted under the pressure of the pounding rain. Mello felt as if he was under constant rain, and that he was wilting. Anger, guilt and regret welled up in his heart as he finally forced himself to look away from the window which was still scattered with raindrops from the last rainfall. Looking down into the dark chocolate drink he stirred it absentmindedly with the wooden stirrer and added another sachet of sugar before stirring again and sighing. Standing to approach the silver pedal bin by the counter to discard the many sugar sachets, the last of the apricot clouds faded away into the night. The sky had been dominated by the silent and gentle beauty of the dark and the city nights were battling them, lighting the way of silent people shuffling through the shadows.

_These tainted words, made to hurt, _

_Cut in me with its' knife._

Matt lay in his musty room, staring through the clouds of smoke that were being produced from the tip of his cigarette. His head was supported by a rough cotton pillow and under him a stained and burned linen sheet lay limply and meagrely. The sheet hadn't been much use in the declining temperatures, and so the redhead bared the biting air alone. Of course, he could simply venture from his smoke ridden room and start the heating up again, but that was like defeat. And Matt had surrendered far too many times to do it now. Letting his head loll back onto the pillow, letting him see a few more feet of the dusty ceiling, a soft sigh escaped his parted lips.

Dust hung like vines down, some almost reaching the splintering pine headboard of his sagging bed. Something about the room was filled with dire memories, and that was exactly why Matt was staying there and why he wanted to leave. He ignored the ransacked drawers, his own clothes pooling out onto the floor but rid of all the leather that had once dominated his soft striped shirts and worn jeans. The squidgy material of his cigarette was burning down to the filter, but the young man didn't notice. He was too pre-occupied in his own nightmare.

By his left hand, near the peeling wallpaper that revealed a dull olive paint coating with notes tacked to it with superglue and dried out blue tac, under an exceedingly long tendril of the curling patterned paper, his DS sat. The pause menu music repeated itself, pleading to be heard. Its high notes and low notes, the melancholy theme flipping suddenly to an upbeat rumba style before settling back to its energetic babble filling in the thick silence of the smoky air.

The smoke curled in tendrils, grasping at his limp body as if trying to pull him from the stiff mattress, while others beckoned from the doorway. How many cigarettes had he lit in this room on that evening, only to let them burn away and singe his calloused fingers black? But it was okay. The pain was warranted, he consoled, and he continued to let it happen, disregarding the fact that he was wasting away his money to buy packs that he didn't take a single drag from.

The day had been long. He had woken up with bloody hands, with no memory of how the dry flaky substance had got there. That was, until he had seen the slits lining his wrists. Suddenly, he felt sick, putting a stained hand to his forehead as he watched the world spin around him. He'd been losing grip ever since he had watched Mello leave… The time just seemed to drag by while slipping past his fingers at the very same time. He had propped himself up against his headboard and cleared his head, sniffing and choking as smoke stabbed at the back of his throat. It was then that his vision took in the rest of the room and he saw the thick tendrils of smoke that had remained from the night before.

By his right hand the bloody knife lay glinting in the dim light and by his left his discarded DS sat, out of charge. A gravelly sigh passed his rough throat and he rubbed his burning eyes, pulling himself out of bed. As his bare feet met the rough carpet, matted with blood spatters and dirt, he tried to keep his balance as he took shaky steps from his bed to the door. He left the knife on his sagging mattress, and the DS, left the sheets in a tangle at the foot of the bed. He wasn't in the mood to clean. He had shuffled along the cool kitchen tiles and pulled out a cup of instant ramen from the cupboard, avoiding the now empty box labelled 'Mel's Chocolate'. As the kettle bubbled and boiled, steam pouring from the spout, he leaned on the counter, toying with the foil cap of the cup. As the kettle clicked off, he fetched a pair of chopsticks and took them in his trembling fingers.

Laying the wooden utensils by his steaming cup after adding the water, he went and slid a slightly dusty glass from the cabinet and rubbed the worst of the grey fluff off onto his bloody shirt. Filling it with beer from the huge box of bottles, he sat down at the dining table that was still set for two, the leftovers of Mello's last dinner beginning to give out a putrid scent. It had been a week… Frowning, he dug his chopsticks into the still slightly watery ramen; he pulled up a few of the noodles and placed them slowly into his open mouth. His stomach clenched uncomfortably as he pushed it back and swallowed it down with a mouthful of beer. Slamming the beer back onto the table and ignoring the way it shuddered, he winced. He hadn't eaten in a couple of days, but he could hardly stomach a few noodles. Chancing it, he slid a few more noodles into his mouth and swallowed them down with beer.

Biting his lip, he tried to keep it down as he slowly placed his beer back down, but the attempt was fruitless. Dropping the glass on its side, he lurched from the table and raced into the bathroom, hand clasped over his mouth. Just making it to the toilet, he unleashed the disgusting vomit over the seat and into the bowl. Flushing as he was still catching his breath, he stormed back to the kitchen, almost sliding on the spilt beer. He picked up the now empty tinted brown bottle and smashed it off the corner of the table, running a finger over the jagged edge. The spark of pain it gave him as a small cut opened on the tip send his head into overdrive. Without another thought he had dragged the jagged points over his arm, an assortment of deep and shallow gashes bursting into red fountains. The blood slid down his arm from either side of each cut. The pain was somewhat immense because of the way the cuts were laced just slightly with a touch of alcohol.

A few hours later and he had showered, and was sitting on his bed again, trying to concentrate on his game until his growling stomach got the better of him. Trying again, he went and filled up the kettle and began to boil it, pulling out another cup of instant ramen. After selecting another bottle of beer, he decided to have it in the bottle instead of filling a glass. Filling the cup of ramen, watching it listlessly as it steamed, he pulled out the chopsticks and sat them beside the plastic pot. When the time was up, he stirred it warily, staring into the hot noodles without much hope. Popping the lid from his beer he sat at the table again, sighing as he delved the chopsticks into the cup and drawing out a few long spindly noodles and placing them in his mouth, cringing. Slowly, he chewed on them even though he could have swallowed them straight, before downing them with a slurp. He could feel his stomach lurching in disagreement and disgust and without even trying to hold it down he stood and threw it up into the sink...

That had been when he had exiled himself to his bedroom and he hadn't moved since. Just, lying there. Looking everywhere but the bedside table, because of a certain framed photo. No. He wouldn't look there.

_Eating my mind, and with each bite, _

_I'm begging "Please Lord, no"_

The night suddenly seemed harsh as he stepped from the comfort of the cosy café. He had known he couldn't stay there for much longer, but he hadn't been expecting it to be as cold as this. Around this town, the temperatures stayed high or mild. Never below. But in this weather, his leather-clad fingers seemed frozen like pinnacles of ice. Of course, it was winter… All the shops were still open, as it was a Saturday, and as he paced the slate pathway outside the glass doorway that was slowly gaining feathery frost patterns, he was talking himself out of going to see Matt. His house was closer, he argued with himself, but his rational side bit back: But you told him you don't want to see him again.

Sighing, Mello knew he couldn't go back on his own word. He restrained himself from stomping to his sleek black and red Ducati Diavel motorbike. Slowly, he corrected his slumped stride to a sultry saunter. It was all he knew, really. He liked to make an impression. Smiling to himself, he noticed the way the movement of the muscles in his cheeks tweaked, reminding him how he hadn't smiled in so long…And why he hadn't. Memories flooded his head and he shook it violently, doing his best to clear them away. It was like trying to bat away hungry flies from rotting fruit. He strode past the painted cobalt plant pots that were bursting out with succulent and richly coloured flowers that had managed to survive the cooling weather. He could see far off to the East the inky outline of trees and stared at them wistfully. Couldn't life just be simple for once?

Shaking his head and deeming that sort of wish ridiculous he swung a leg over the leathery black seat and fitted his leatherclad ass into a comfortable position. Kicking it to a start and pulling out of the space in the parking lot that was marked out in dirtied yellow lines, he let himself find comfort in the soft purring of the engine. The heat from the exhaust heated the exposed skin of his back as he revved the engine and swerved the car out onto the nearly empty highway and zipped down the dark roads. The antique-looking lampposts looked grand in their own luminous golden glow, but the dim honey-like light did hardly anything for the darkened streets. Luckily the shop front's bright lighting and the many clubs with their strobe lights that filtered out onto the street was just enough to light his way. Flicking on his headlights after finally admitting defeat grudgingly, the street was flooded with the white light the single large round bulb produced.

Few people were dodging in and out of the shops, but the clubs were jam packed and the loud beats of the music filled the blonde's tortured head. In some ways it was a distraction that was much needed, but in other ways it was an annoyance. Diverting his eyes once again from the empty roads his sharp eyes pinpointed a lone figure slumping along the cracked pavements that fronted the densely packed houses. Slowing slightly but not noticeably, he tracked the figure, noting that it had a tinge of red in its hair, just visible in the dim light. Mello's eyes strayed from it and saw the parking spaces outside Matt's favourite game shop. His heart clenched and his blue eyes widened considerably. As the tall, skinny figure loped into the game store he found himself swerving into the parking space and had the engine turned off in a flash.

Just as he made to swing his legs over the seat and march into the shop, his body froze and he was forced to think. And all became clear, his hand twitching at the ignition again, sighing in tormented defeat. He couldn't just walk in there and…Claim Matt…

_/Flashback/_

"_I never want to see you again…It's too dangerous"_

"_But- Mello, please!"_

"_Shut up Matt! Don't make this harder than it is. I don't care about you!"_

_/Flashback End/_

He could have cried, there in the street. He hadn't cried for years, yet that one memory, that one slip of the tongue, and he had ruined his entire life. What sort of animal was he? As he revved the engine and flew down the road, hair being whipped back from his alabaster face, making his crinkled burn scar vulnerable to the cold lashings of the wind, more and more memories came back. And he couldn't battle them off.

"_I've got to leave, Matt!" _

"_No you don't! C'mon, Mels!"_

"_Don't call me that! Now, let me go." _

_This place is a mess, _

_The one has gone_

Matt finally tore his empty gaze from the tarnished ceiling and forced the terrified eyes to scan the room, see the chaos again. He had to, to remind himself this wasn't a sick and twisted nightmare. That he wasn't going to wake up with his blonde love beside him again. That's not how real life works anyway, that's the stuff of the dark fairytales written in beautiful script on crisp parchment in heavy leather-bound books. And this wasn't a twisted story, not something that could be made better in the blink of an eye. He stared at the muddy floor, the boot marks, the scuffs…The blood and shattered glass, the spilled beer and bits of chocolate foil scattering the floor with his clothes a pool among it.

There was the hole from the door handle caved in on the weak plaster wall, the door was on the verge of buckling… The windows had gained grime and the scent of leather still managed to linger within the swarms of heavy smoke and the stench of rotting food and ramen. It was like seeing the room with new eyes, and in disbelief he let his hand stray to his DS, flicking the power button. Finally the cheerful music shut up, and he was consumed in the unsettling silence of the flat. The handle on one of the drawers was half way across the room and the lightshade had fallen from the bulb, which was shattered anyway. Matt hadn't even bothered to change it, preferring to sleep in the room and do that only. This had been the first day he had allowed himself to stay in his and Mello's shared room awake for more than the 10 minutes he took to dress and hunt out everything from under the bed.

Crowds of dust bunnies were painfully obvious from the small alcoves under the wardrobe and drawers, the desk and even when he wasn't lying on it, the bed. The slightest flourish of a booted foot could send them scattering out from their home under the furniture, causing inconvenience at the best of times by getting his clothes dusty. Today he ignored them as he stood shakily, stomach somehow still weak. Feeling the need to patrol his domain, he stumbled over the threshold of his room, a cigarette still burning aimlessly in his burned fingertips. He didn't draw on it; only let it leave a dark trail with a cloying scent behind him. It was something he had grown accustomed to after becoming addicted to them, something that came with the package. He could deal with it for the good effects the addictive drug gave.

The first room he saw was the living room. Approaching the sagging sofa, he leaned down and sniffed in its leather scent, his mind spinning in wonderment. He needed that scent, but he just couldn't have it… Shaking his head, he moved from the leather sofa and to the buckled coffee table, trailing a hand over the bloody skeleton lines that crisscrossed the cheap frame. Smashed glass lacerated his feet but the soft stinging and the way he trailed the blood over the laminate flooring was almost comforting. He passed the cabinet in the corner filled with books and CDs without enthusiasm, flicking the glass front and watching it crack with bitter satisfaction. Making his way into the rank smelling kitchen, he had to pinch his pointed nose.

The sink was clogged with the remnants of his sick, there was rotting food on the table, the cupboard doors were kicked in, blood was on half of the knives, broken goggles and spilled beer and ramen staining the floor. Like the bedroom, the window had grime coating it thickly. Heavy curtains pooled down onto the soggy and vaguely disgusting floor after being ripped from their railings by fumbling hands to hold to a deep gash. Finally, he went to the cupboard, and for all it was worth, obeyed his gurgling stomach to pull out an instant meal… Staring at the boxed food with distaste he dropped it on the floor in favour for yet another cup of instant ramen. Again, he was eating for one, but already his brain was manipulating itself into the stupor that reminded himself like an echo that he was on his own now. The problem was, it kept getting fainter.

_Lovesongs, they kill me, _

_They kill me now_

It's always the smallest things that push you over the edge, pondered Matt as he stared at his empty hands. The gargling kettle was demanding to be heard but the noise seemingly avoided his ears…Until the click to signify the water being ready could be heard. With a start he leapt away from the filthy bunker and composed himself. He wasn't keen on the idea of scalding his hands with boiling water. Not even in the name of instant ramen. Slowly, with unsure hands, he lifted the kettle from its base and tipped the required amount of water into the pot. After putting the kettle back he picked up the ramen cup…And it slipped.

Matt watched with dry eyes as it fell almost as if in slow motion, the contents splashing in the air as it spun. He felt like a different entity at that moment, a different person watching the ramen and boiling water pool over the floor in a mess, followed by the upturned plastic cup. He felt like a lone soul that had drifted into the world, into this apartment, by mistake and was now caught amongst the cloying tendrils of smoke. He would even go as far as to say he felt…_fragile, _as a lone tear slid down his alabaster pale cheek. He felt as if that soul would be blown away by the swish of a golden hair…The flip of a leather jacket. The flourish of a leather gloved hand. The emerald gaze remained on the pooled mess for a few more empty moments before it flickered up to the table. Remnants of rotting rice and vegetables….Spoiling as if in front of his eyes. This whole place seemed alien to him, and finally he realised, standing there as if in shock, that the apartment wasn't the same without Mello being there.

And how sad is it, he mused, that I'm holding on to his last meal because it's the only reminder of him I have? And even he had to admit it was extremely sad. As his brilliant eyes moved slowly around the wasting room, the phone seemed to be taunting him. He wanted more than anything else to go to it and pick it up from the cradle delicately. It was his only lifeline, really, his subconscious was grasping it with every tie it could. That phone was probably the only thing in the room as the tears fell freely from his eyes. He wanted to stay in this apartment, but Mello wasn't here. It was truth that he had to stay… But Mello wasn't here anymore and that just wasn't good enough.

Not feeling the connection between his mind and body any longer, his hand snatched the precious phone from the cradle and long fumbling fingers dialled out the series of numbers that had been carved in his mind from the first day. Taking deep breaths and basically scraping the silver tears and their marks from his face before pressing the call button. One hand pressed the phone against his ear roughly while the other grasped the counter with unnecessary force, supporting his body. His head was bowed and he heard himself muttering an incomprehensible prayer under his breath as it rang. He had never willed someone to pick up the phone more than now.

'_You have reached the answer machine. The resident is unable to pick up the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep…' _Before the harsh beep could resound in his ears, the phone had been smashed forcefully into the cradle, the plastic screen buckling slightly on impact. Matt's delicate being just couldn't handle that just now…

_Lovesongs are killing me, _

_Are killing me right now._

Mello growled under his breath as he realised he had taken a wrong turn somewhere back along the road. He was headed towards the wrong apartment block, not his own. The roads were being abused by pounding raindrops that fell like tears from the heavens, soaking his hair to his porcelain skin. His scar was soothed by the freezing water, overly sensitive to changes of temperature. The dark clouds seemed to be dragged over his head hurriedly as he revved his engine, accelerating harshly, causing drops of water to speed out in a spherical motion. Checking behind him for traffic he swerved around in a U turn and sped off in the other direction, trying to ignore the longing to go and see his ex-lover. It had been so long…He could still remember the way that Matt had looked in the morning with the honey sun dancing on his pale skin, the darned goggles somewhere on the other side of the room.

He could visualise the way Matt would slowly crack his emerald eyes open, groaning at the contact of the light. He would cower away from it, turning over onto a stiff shoulder that would promptly crack. Mello would run a finger down his exposed back and the redhead would turn around in a flash, causing the blonde to chuckle. Then the emerald eyed beauty would grin shortly before the cheekiness subsided and left a soft smile, a hand reaching out to stroke the scarred face before him. Mello would shut his sharp eyes, feeling them soften, lips parted slightly as the love of his life's nimble hand would slide down over the scar, right down to his torso before kissing his jugular softly. Mello would then wrap his strong arms around the smaller man and hold him close, marvelling in his mere presence…

He could see it all so clearly, and it was painful. He could pick out the exact tint of Matt's hair, eyes and skin, tell you the temperature of his tongue as they kissed. He could tell you the size of clothes he wore, the length of his eyelashes, the small amount of freckles dusted over his lower back. He could tell you the story behind each of the miniscule scars over the redhead's fingers. Dammit, Mello could tell you the fucking length of Matt's ring finger if you asked. And it freaking hurt, all this knowledge just crying out to be heard. He wanted to have a reason to know it all, but now it was worthless. Everything seemed worthless when his redhead darling wasn't there.

Finally back on course, he veered around momentarily on the highway, avoiding drunkard's cars as he tried to keep his mind clear of memories. Of how much he wanted to be somewhere else, nearing the _right_ destination. The idea of going home alone seemed worse than wrong! But there was nothing he could do about it, and that was killing him slowly and treacherously. What seemed like hours later, a tall and dark apartment block towered over him. It made him feel insignificant…He had never felt like that when Matt was there, or when pulling up to Matt's house. This was so much harder than he had anticipated. But he had always had bad judgement when it came to difficulty. His scar was proof of that.

Dismounting his motorbike he felt vaguely unstable, standing there on the sodden parking lot outside the home he was not yet accustomed to. It just didn't feel like home, and he was undoubtedly out of his comfort zone. Begrudgingly, he dragged himself away from his motorbike, forcing himself not to remount and drive towards his beloved's flat. It isn't fair, he tried to tell himself, to appear on his doorstep randomly after saying I didn't want to see him again. Successfully entering the lobby of the apartment block, he scuffled without any energy towards the stairwell. Latching onto the banister, he managed to pull himself up the stairs. His feet felt like they were burdened, as if heavy magnets were trying to pull him back to the motorbike. Back to Matt's arms, that promised safety and everything he needed.

It took longer than usual but the depressed blonde managed to reach his floor without another distraction, other than the yelling voices in his head. Rummaging around in his pocket for his door key, he stared at the brass plaque on the wood. 29. Top floor. It was helpful for suicide, many who visited joked, nudging him playfully as he snickered into a bottle of beer. Matt had never made the joke, and Mello knew fine well why… Finally retrieving the key from his deep pocket, he pushed it into the lock and turned, watching with odd satisfaction as he swung the door in. It felt like he had accomplished a feat, which in a way, he had. Smiling to himself weakly, he stepped into the house tentatively. The blonde wasn't comfortable here, not anymore. The thing was, was that he now knew that he had said his last goodbye to Matt. And he wanted many more...He wanted more than life could give. He wanted to always be able to go back afterwards for another at the start of the day. He just couldn't get by without the chance of another goodbye.

One by one he wandered around the dark house listlessly, flicking light switches on with a somewhat limp finger. His way finally lit, he peered around the dingy apartment without much hope. Out of the corner of his eye, something odd came into his peripheral vision. He had a message on his landline. Slowly, hesitantly, he walked towards it, the last of his bold façade melting away as he shed his jacket. Picking the phone gently from the cradle, he studied the unused buttons and clicked a few, listening to the message that had popped up. He held his breath as the number was spoken out by a harsh female voice, and flinched as he realised it was Matt's. He listened intently. The beep of the answer machine had obviously went unnoticed, and all he heard was a muffled sob and the bang of a phone being slammed into the cradle, cutting the noise off. He stared at the now silent phone in a daze, unsure of what to do.

Frowning, he tried to pull his confidence back with his unsure thoughts. Slowly, the blonde placed the phone back down and walked to a worn armchair in the corner, feeling disconnected from his slender body as he sunk into the soft fabric. Letting his weary head loll back, he let a soft sigh pass his soft lips, desperately trying to ward off all the painful memories. The chocolate lover didn't need more pain now. It was hard enough to stay away from Matt as it was. But what else was he supposed to do? Matt had been his life for so long, it wasn't easy to readapt.

_Trained to attack, bull eye shot in black,_

_I never thought they'd get me.._

The scarred man reached for his gun absentmindedly, toying with his belt loops with his free hand. His golden hair fell into his tired alabaster face, his breath coming in harsh gasps. His chest felt as if it had been punctured, although his body was in the best condition it had been in a long while. The world had melted into the background as he replayed the scenes of a thousand beautiful days spent with his beloved. The memories hurt, but it was a good pain… The pain he had craved and lusted over when he had been with Matt. It was getting harder and harder to admit defeat, harder to accept that he was no longer with Matt….That he had to think of it in the past tense. That acting like he was still in those brilliant times was lying to himself. Perhaps that was the worst torture possible.

He could remember everything so clearly, though, and it was so tempting to relive the passionate moments. He remembered a specific day, when the weather hadn't been so good, that Matt had made the sun come out for him.

_/Flashback/_

_Mello sighed and paced the laminate flooring of the living room, kicking furniture aside in his impatience. Sharp blue eyes glanced up often to scrutinize the clock, always disappointed by the numbers presented. Without much enthusiasm, he forced himself to give up. His lover was still asleep, as for once he had let the redhead sleep in. Checking the hot water and peering out the window for the umpteenth time, he made a last report in his head: Raining. _

_Storming out of the room, he stripped down and stepped into the shower, turning on the water and relishing the feel of the heating liquid cascading down his back. With a slight sigh, he stretched. Sometimes, the rain really did ruin the day. _

_Too wrapped up in his own thoughts, he didn't notice the door being pushed open, the dull grey light from outside being caught in the hundreds of water droplets clinging to Mello's skin. A redhead snuck around the door, over the threshold of the bathroom. Shutting the door with a soft click that was inaudible to the blonde in the shower, he stripped down and stepped carefully into the shower, still going unnoticed by his blonde lover. Smirking at his own victory, Matt's hand snuck out and caressed Mello's side. The scarred man had jumped before being pushed against the shower wall, another being leaning against him, something hard pressing against his bare thigh…._

_/Flashback Over/ _

His reverie was broken, just as his memory got to the best part, by the shrill ringing of the telephone. He stared at it emotionlessly, knowing who it was. Even though he was aching to reach out and pick it up, hear the strained voice of his ex, he didn't. It would be too tempting to go through with Matt's pleads, and so he let the phone ring, his hopes falling more and more with each minute. When the ringing did not stop, showing the redhead's insistence, he stood from his spot on the armchair and approached the phone cradle, picking it up and staring at the screen longingly…Before pressing the reject button and placing it back down. Now just wasn't the time or the place, although no time could have been better. It didn't feel right to discuss their problems over the phone. No, he wouldn't break. He was strong, and he would resolve this right.

_These pictures in my head, lying in my bed, _

_These whips that make me bleed,_

Matt could have broken the phone in two when his call was rejected. Sobbing angrily, he gripped the phone tightly and stormed away from the kitchen, hardly noticing where he placed his feet. Soon the soles of his boots were packed in with vegetables and ramen noodles and soaked through with water and beer, his socks squelching slightly. He was already in a foul mood; even this couldn't make it worse. He felt as if his soul had been sucked out of him and now he was just a body staggering about the house, not quite sure of what his purpose was.

He stumbled around the house, pocketing the phone as he entered his room. He knew he had nowhere else to go now, having worn out the wonders of each room in turn with his reminiscing. He lay down on the bed in defeat, spreading out on the mattress and sighing. His body was worn and tired, empty and pained. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, but the nagging in the back of his head did not agree with the idea. In fact, it was like a banging in the back of his mind, bothering his entire entity, aggravating all sense of peace. His breath seemed heavy and loud in the thick tainted air, and it reverberated around his aching skull. Some things just could not be healed by comforting oneself, and this was an example of that.

Lying back, he tried to remember everything about Mello. He could remember almost everything about the blonde, the length of his fingers, his sensitive spots, the exact hue of his blue eyes. He could remember the very length of his long golden locks, remember the jagged edges of his teeth on his own tongue. He could remember the feel of his love's scar under his calloused fingers and pick out the expression the tall man wore each time. He could tell you where his perfect skin creased when he frowned and remember the delicate line of his brow. Something about these memories was laced with the vagueness. Alcohol, intake of smoke, beer-laced cuts and mindless crying and storming did that to memories. Dimmed the light that highlighted every detail of them. Matt was struggling with himself, trying to do the opposite of what he had been trying to do for so long. He desperately tried to remember every single thing about Mello and was horrified to note that he had missed out things. Things were fading, dimming and disappearing out the back of his mind, pushing his sanity away with it.

It was like in those cheesy movies, where the flashbacks are brightened in blinding sunlight. The dazzling light drains out the details, the only things that matter. And it's like a stabbing pain through your chest as you try and shield your eyes to see through the glittering sun's light. It hurts you as you attempt and fail, making you feel frail, until you give up reluctantly, not really sure what to do with yourself next. It's a painful procedure, especially in excruciating moments like these. Darkening days that make it hard to decipher what is reality or what is your subconscious, which is desperate to please. Of course, the nights are too bright to coax you into dreamless, comfortable sleep, only bringing you aching nightmares that are paired with heavy breathing and tossing and turning, clawing at one's own skin. These are the dark days when there is no purpose left other than the one that is just out of your reach.

Pursuing the things that have left you seems like a pointless and painful thing to do, and even the determined Matt cannot deal with that on such a horrible day like this one. So he lets his eyes glaze over, lets his body go limp, lets everything leave him. Death could take him and nothing would change.

_This place is a mess_

_My one has gone_

It crashes down on his heaving chest like a tonne of bricks, crushing his heart between his spine and ribs, the cold truths of what has happened. Red hair splayed out behind him, Matt only just manages to suppress a lengthy scream as the full pain he had been avoiding for the past week cascades over him. He knew it was a mistake to spend this much time in a room full of his dearest memories. It was dangerous, and now he is paying the price. Mello is _gone_ and isn't coming back. Nothing will bring him back, and now Matt is alone. It's taken this long for Matt to fully process what has truly happened, the mess that he has been left in. His own mind is rebelling against him, pushing him into the memories that were so dim but are now emblazoned, bright. Every single movement Mello makes and every syllable he utters, Matt hears and sees them as if they are happening in front of him. And it's a pain he'd never felt before, a pain that yearns to be heard and yearns to stay.

This pain is all that is left of Mello, and Matt would live with it if it meant remembering his blonde lover. If he could obtain every single piece of information he had held onto for this long and keep it safe in his mind, bright and brilliant like the day it entered it, he would feel this pain for the rest of his life without complaint. It was his lifeline and the final way he could hold on to his love. The only way that was available to him. It was a pain that gave pleasure, a kind he was used to, but the pleasure was nearly outweighed by the stabbing, stinging, ripping pain and he had to cling to it to keep it there. If he let his grip slip for one second, it would escape and his burning inner turmoil would swallow him up. His sanity would disperse and in a matter of seconds he would lose control. If Wammy's had taught him anything, it was never to lose control. Not even if it cost you your life.

_Love songs, they kill me, _

_They kill me now_

Mello had to admit, he was slowly breaking under the pressure to go and see the redhead. Steadily, his reasons not to were slipping away and being deemed ridiculous and the only obstacle his irrational side had left was the chance…The chance that Matt didn't want him anymore. Of course, his mind yelled at him, he wants you! He called you, he cried when you didn't pick up, and if that isn't longing to see you, I don't know what is. His blonde hair flicked around his scrunched up face as he tried to clear his head by shaking it violently. Needless to say, it didn't work. The longing was consuming him and he felt himself stand slowly, before slumping to his knees. His rational mind was fighting back and every word it screamed at him was weighing him down. It was lucky he couldn't sink through the floor, because if he could he would be at the centre of the Earth by now. It felt as if every organ inside of him was falling down to his knees where they hit the floor, and he squirmed. Such powerful emotions that were not of pain and anger and love were beyond him.

His arms were trying to pull him to where his coat had fallen, but his legs were like lead and his soul was tearing into two conflicting sides that battled angrily in his head. It was driving him insane, and he involuntarily cried out in anguish. It was too much for his pained being, and his rational side fell silent with his cry, and without another thought he hauled himself to his feet and shrugged on his jacket, relishing in the way it fitted snugly on his sloping shoulders. He had always known he had a vaguely feminine, delicate and slender body and that was why he wore leather. It clung and enunciated and made him look moderately threatening. The eccentricity of it was alluring and he found himself the centre of attention wherever he went. This was his comfort zone and he marvelled in every speck of attention he gained. But now the only attention he wanted was from Matt. The danger it was going to put them both in didn't matter. Mello was brilliant at being selfish, and his anguished moments were no exception.

Without further ado, he dropped his keys for his motorbike and his door into his pocket and raced from the door, the thump each stair he bore down on echoing in his empty mind. The adrenaline coursing through his veins pushed him on at top speed and even the thrill that stabbed at him as he skidded on the last stair and nearly fell couldn't fill up the mindlessness of the whole situation. Now wasn't a time for thinking or talking. Now was a time for action, and that was exactly what he was going to get. In all honesty, the blonde had never been so relieved to hear the purr of his engine as he kicked off, steering out into the highway and began on his way to the flat that had been pulling him in from the beginning.

_Love songs are killing me, _

_Are killing me right now_

Matt's eyes rolled back in his head as his grip slid from all the pleasure of the situation, and the pain rang through. The last of his sanity was being burned down like the wick of a candle, and he could feel his mind melting away with the heat. It was excruciating, even worse than the pain he had experienced after slicing his arm with the broken beer bottle. It was like millions of explosions, a hundred bullets embedding themselves in his body, in his mind. He could swear he felt them stab him in the side, in the neck, eyes, the back of his throat after travelling into his gaping mouth, into his stomach and chest and even his knees. His entire entity was being taken over by this sensation, and suddenly he remembered something. Something dangerous, something deadly.

Mello didn't want him anymore, and coincidentally he had left the one thing that could kill the redhead behind. He had left a gun with only 3 bullets behind, in the kitchen by the kettle. Matt could remember his hand brushing it as he went to pour boiling water into his…Well, potential vomit. Wincing, he was suddenly aware of the disgusting taste at the back of his mouth. He had honestly almost forgotten about it somewhere within the immense pain and amazement. And now it seemed that the gun was drawing him in, tempting him. He couldn't….Could he? His mind was silent, not sure how to answer, until something whispered _you could.._

That was the only confirmation he needed, and he was standing from his bed, knocking the bloody knife to the floor in his haste. His feet were clumsy and he tripped over the sofa, knocking the glass front cabinet over. It landed on his back and he yelled out as the glass broke and dug into his skin. The chill the pain brought was blotted out as warm blood spread over the cuts, washed over with stings of pain. Slowly, carefully, in an extremely painful push up, Matt straightened out his arms and managed to push the cabinet, books and CDs away, standing up and wincing. He could feel every single piece of glass that was in his back stretch the wounds, ripping the skin unceremoniously. It just so happened that on the days he would experience the worst emotional pain he could imagine, he would meet his death after experiencing a hell of a lot of physical pain as well. Typical luck. The thought made him retch up a pain filled, strangled sound he couldn't decide was a sob or a laugh

_I can't hear the sceneries _

_Of constant tragedies_

_Of what I meant to feel no more_

Wheels revved and whirled, speeding over the sodden tarmac. Rain crashed around like bombs of water, ricocheting off every surface and seemingly aiming for the blonde rider. Each one hit him with increasing force, so much force it was beginning to feel like a backlash of hail. Even his leather couldn't protect him from the raging weather, and his gloved fingers were mere pinnacles of ice that refused to defrost no matter how hard he willed them to. Nothing would make him stop now, though. He had to reach Matt as fast as possible, and that was all that was important to him right now. Nothing would deter him from this, not even the police, not gunfire, not bombs or thunder and lightning. Not even an earthquake would make him stop.

Something in the back of his mind was niggling at him to stop, to turn back and go home. That this would get him into trouble, that something was not quite right. As if something bad was happening and he just didn't know about it yet. The danger of the situation was plainly evident and he was quite happy for it to remain. It added to the excitement of it all, and right now it felt as if only the adrenaline was keeping him from making the U turn his mind was begging him to. Everything about this screamed that he was making a mistake, even the irrational side of his mind which had convinced him to leave in the first place. It almost felt as if he had put his own sanity, perhaps even his own life on the line, and it was vaguely frightening. The thought that he might not reach Matt before his death was the worst sort of fear he had felt, and he pushed the thoughts away.

Reminding himself this was a time for action, not thoughts and talk, he pushed onwards. The rain was lashing him now like whips and each strike made his eye twitch with suppressed gasps of pain. He shouldn't be so prone, so sensitive to each touch, but it may as well have been impossible from the amount of effort he put in to make him insensitive. There are some things you just can't accomplish, as much as it pained the blonde to admit. He knew he was close as he sped past the restaurant he and the redhead had often visited, and that only made him go faster. His instincts pulled him on while his mind begged him to stop. But he would not succumb to his mind now, not when it had pushed him into this in the first place. In a blind fit of determination he cut over a roundabout and through a swing park, and soon he was able to slow the motorbike to a halt in front of the dark silhouette of a small house. He didn't think again. Leaping from his seat, he made his way to the front door and put a hand on the handle…

'_Cause I'm already dead, _

_And I just cannot bear, _

_To hear another word no more_

Glass still in his back, Matt moved without another thought. His senses were so dull he hardly felt the stinging pain as he ran to the kitchen, slipping on the beer and ramen, as shards of glass dropped from the bloody wounds. He hardly had the mind to pay any attention to such minor things now. The only thing he could concentrate on was a vivid memory of Mello in all his dazzling splendour, and his own life…Or losing it. Yes, this is what the emerald eyed genius planned to do to end his night. He would end his life along with it. It would only take one of the three bullets left, and it would be quick. He wondered how long it would take for someone to find him. What if it was his blonde? No, not _his_ blonde, he reminded himself. What if it was the blonde who had been his for so long? What if Mello found him in a bloody, rotting, dead tangle on the bathroom floor? How would he react?

Would he be disgusted, and back away from his mangled, tormented form, or would he laugh and retrieve the gun he had came for from his pale, limp hand? Perhaps a few tears would splash down onto his pale form, to show Mello was sad? Maybe he would regret doing everything, ruining what they had. But this was no matter of concern to the redhead. He would be dead; he wouldn't see how his ex-lover would react. And did it really matter? The blonde didn't even care about him anymore, so why should he care if he died? It would make no sense if he did. The most likely reaction would be a blank, sharp stare as the gun was taken from his hand. Bloody footprints would mark the carpet as Mello walked out of the room, out of the house. That was when Matt would know it was the end. When Mello left his dead body to rot without a trace of emotion on his face.

His hand fit perfectly around the gun, and he settled his index finger comfortably and easily over the trigger. To test it, he shot a bullet through the wall in front of him. The backlash was a shock, but it didn't hurt. He could deal with that. It wasn't as if a bruised hand or a jolted elbow would be of much concern to a dead man. So without another thought he made his way to the bathroom and took himself in. He really was a sight to behold, he had to admit. His skin was somewhat translucent, and covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Networks of blue-green veins were mapped out under his skin for the world to see, and his hair was matted, sticking to his forehead. His eyes were wide and tired, huge purple bruise like marks under them. His lips were dry and flaking and everything about it seemed to be sinking backwards, away from the light of day. It disgusted even him. Now he saw plainly why Mello had left him. Had this been going on for long? Had his features began to sink back when he was with the blonde? Well, it was a reasonable explanation.

Outside, Mello was slowly pushing the door open, and raised an elegant eyebrow at the smoke filled house. One hand still buried in his pocket, he raised the other to hold his nose as he kicked the door closed. He followed a long trail that dipped into the kitchen and then back out. He scrutinized his last meal rotting on the splintering table, the spilled beer and ramen, the sick clogging the sink. He nudged the curtains which were lying in a heap, tainted with blood, on the floor, soggy. There was smashed glass scattered over the floor and the phone cradle had been seriously bashed in. How it would ever hold the phone again he didn't know. There was grime on the window and he scrunched his nose up with distaste as he scanned the smoky room again. He could see a few clear spatters of tears alongside red stains of blood and he frowned. Matt wouldn't, would he….?

Shaking his head furiously, the blonde quickly moved from the room to the bedroom. He took in the heap of bed clothes at the foot of the sagging bed, the huge tendrils of smoke and the vines of dust. The clothes were still spread over the floor and dust bunnies lay on them and flitted around restlessly as he moved. To his horror, a bloody knife was lying in the centre of the room, almost as if in a spotlight. Blood spattered the mattress, and the DS was turned off, a hairline crack running down its top screen. The photo of him and the redhead had been turned away from the bed, and was facing the side of the wardrobe. Nothing on the desk had been touched since his last day here. In fact, the only things in here that had been touched since then was the photo frame to turn it around, the knife on the floor, the mattress, pillow and duvet and the DS. Typically. Moving into the living room, he was beginning to see recent signs of life.

Blood matted the carpet alongside the dirt from two different pairs of shoes. The sofa was slightly lopsided and blood was dried in the cracks on the table. It was like a crimson form of superglue. But the most interesting thing was the shattered cabinet, books and CDs scattered amongst the crystals of glass. Matt had obviously tripped recently and the glass had shattered, the cabinet landing on top of him. The blood by the wreckage was still sticky, much to the leather clad male's distaste. His ears pricked as he picked out the sound of muffled sobbing. Following the sound, he was brought to the door of the bathroom. It was closed over but not locked. As he reached out to open it, white hot fear burned him and he flinched. What if he saw something he didn't want to? What if Matt was dying? The idea was the most terrifying one he had ever had and that only made him more compelled to open the door.

Pushing it open in a moment of reckless abandon, he was just in time to see Matt's finger pulling down on the trigger. His reflexes kicked in and as the trigger was pushed down he pushed the gun away from Matt's head, turning it towards the mirror. Matt's green eyes watched in disbelieving wonder as the bullet sped forward and hit the mirror, watching his and Mello's reflection shatter and fall to pieces, landing in the sink in front of him. The gun was still clenched in his shaking hand and his bottom lip shook, threatening to let rip a renewed series of strangled sobs. The blonde who stood behind him cleared his throat, his relief clear in his eyes.

"Matt…Why?"

"I-I had to." The shorter male sniffled uncertainly "I couldn't…Deal with it anymore." His eyes filled with tears, blurring his vision, and he panicked. He needed to see Mello, and this was obscuring the view. Battling the tears back took a lot of effort but was worth it. The blonde was beautiful at that moment, in a twisted, anguished way, and his hungry eyes took the scene in. It was what he had been waiting for, for so long, and now it was finally happening. It took all his might not to smile.

"You can't….Matt, I-I'm…I'm sorry, okay? Please come with me. I need you…" The blonde's voice was thick and he trailed off at the end, his face crumpling. Matt was startled at his sudden breakdown of his calm and collected front and he frowned bemusedly. The worst part was, was that he wanted to go with Mello so much…But he couldn't. Not with so much danger. He wouldn't but his love in danger, not for the world. Not for his own pleasure. He didn't care if Mello had to live out his days alone, as long as he wasn't dying because of Matt. Matt could be selfish and selfless at the exact same time, and this was him putting that talent to use.

"Mello, you know I can't!" He exclaimed, each word he spoke ruining him a bit more, crushing the shards of his heart to dust.

"Please…" It had to be the hardest thing Matt had done in a long time, but he had to do it. The expression on the blonde's face was ripping him to pieces, but he couldn't give in. Not if it would cost Mello his life, and that was the only thing that mattered. The blue eyed beauty had to live, whether the redhead died or not. Shaking his head was difficult, as he knew that this was it. That had been his last chance to go with his lover and find happiness. This was his decision and now he had to go through with it.

When Mello watched Matt shake his head, his emotions shut down completely and he stared with blank blue eyes at the redhead's sunken face, face void of emotion. He felt empty, and for the first time in his life, being refused what he wanted hadn't caused him to blow up. No, this was too much, and now he was empty and stoic. He wasn't going to hurt Matt more now. He was going to leave. Nodding, he didn't make a move to touch his ex or say goodbye. He said nothing, and he knew he wouldn't be pursued as he walked quickly out of the house for the last time. He didn't think to take the gun back from Matt. No, he was too shell-like now, he didn't have the common sense. He knew why his redhead was doing this, knew it was for their safety, but he couldn't understand anything at that moment. He didn't want to, he realised, as he was belted with a sharp sting of cold air, the door swinging closed behind him.

Matt stood in the bathroom, watching the space where the love of his life had been standing just 2 minutes before. His mind had gone into overdrive after he left; so badly so that he hadn't been able to do anything. After zooming through a hundred things he could do, it finally slowed down and he gained control over his body again. Slowly, he raised the gun to his head and pressed it to his temple.

Mello was too far away to hear the bang.

_Love songs, they kill me, _

_They kill me, now..  
**  
Well, that was looooong. o.o. Hope you enjoyed? Uh..Yeah. Mind is dead. :/. I'm aware I missed out a little tiny bit at the end, but chill. He was already dead *Sniffles* No need to rub it in.  
Well, darlings. Hope that was okay! Please excuse any grammatical errors, I did my best.  
Review? You get a cookie! :3  
'Til next time, darlings!  
Trouble~x  
P.S: The align wouldn't work right... So I had to put this on centre align as well. Do excuse. **_


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